Every time I was running/or pushing him away, we were facing his anger. It was everyday story. I remember sitting in the corner of my cousin's room, scared, closed eyes, covering my ears while he was screaming my name outside. To calm him down, my grandparents and his wife makes me sit next to him in living room. Where he was touching my thighs, trying to kiss me, rotating my face to look at him. I can't forget his scary face and laugh. No one was stopping him, he was coming to my room every other night.

Fifteen months have come and gone, But memories still burn Everyone has told their story, but I’ve yet to have my turn. On websites, strangers cry for help And others tell their story To be a victim is to have

I have been manipulated, lied too and I was lonely. I was expressing my feelings all over social media, hoping they would realise what they have done. Instead he made himself the victum in the situation…and this was only the

I have a disease that belongs to those of war, to those who’ve seen the blood spilled over a hill that everyone wants. A strategically placed mound of dirt, now covered in blood, a hill that will turn the course

I don’t remember it happening. Shit. Now that I’m thinking hard of enough I do. Shit. Now that I’m thinking hard enough. I can remember his body pressed on mine. Stop. Shame. I don’t remember how many times it happened.

I’ve seen all the controversy towards rape & just wanted to share my story. Mine wasn’t horrific, but it made me think. Heading for a night out, and I had been ‘pre-drinking’ with friends but wasn’t too drunk, just a

the kid who at the time would be my best friend, later my boyfriend, and soon after my abuser. Freshman year, After a breakup with his first girlfriend I found myself talking to him alot more than i had in

We talk in English class about the concept of “Perception vs. Reality” and how literature demonstrates this universal truth. I wonder if anybody knows anyone at all as I think back to the word “Ethical” printed in the yearbook

I thought- he reduced me to thinking- that I was nothing more than a used person, and no one will want me again. I was willing to do anything to get back together, because I knew that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I felt like a broken piece of trash no one will even look at.

I remember sitting in the shower, and not being able to cry, I was so in shock over what had happened. It didn’t even occur to me right away what that was. I just wanted to keep showering. I wanted the water to be hot enough that it would wash my skin off, so I could be someone else. I envisioned my skin washing off like paint and running down the drain, I wanted to be someone else. Someone who could never ever be in that position. I wanted to be someone who could remember what happened.

September 1997 “Man, she’s through!” “I can’t get my d*ck in her for sh*t!” “We doing this jungle style!” “I don’t need my d*ck sucked tonight.” “Hold her leg!” Dialogue of the rapists – I was extremely intoxicated with some

He was my boyfriend. We had a lot of sex—but usually at his parents’ because mine forbade us to in their house. I’d invited him over and since we weren’t allowed in my bedroom, we decided to watch a movie

This is my story –of a 13-year-old victim who reported to the police in 1956. Ancient history? Perhaps, but it may give some insight into why victims don't report and the surreal experience of doing so. That said, I firmly believe that victims should speak out and identify themselves. It is not their shame! Not publishing names "in order to protect the victim" implies that somehow it is the victim's shame. Rapists are the ones who deserve to be identified and shamed.

The When You're Ready Project is a community for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories and have their voices heard, finding strength in one another. When you're ready to share your story, we will be here.